Hold On
by Chamaelirium
Summary: A car accident forces those involved to examine their feelings for the other.
_Hold on, hold on to yourself_

 _For this is gonna hurt like hell... (Sarah McLachlan, Hold On)_

Reddington held onto her hand like a drowning man, a lifeline through the confusion and blood and screaming and death. His grip was shaky and slippery with blood and shock but he would not relinquish it despite the medics that swarmed around her, unmovable in his grief. Her face was pale, unresponsive, and completely clean of the scarlet fluid that covered so much of them both. In his eyes it seemed to float above the chaos, and he felt as long as he could focus on it that perhaps this reality they were in was just a hallucination, a nightmare brought on by too much rich food and alcohol and late nights.

He couldn't allow himself to look below her neck, at the mess of contusions and bruises that covered her body, now laid bare by the medical team in order to stitch back together this broken doll who used to be a woman. A nurse was attempting to clean the long, jagged gash on his forehead that had initially dripped blood into his eyes and down his face, and he halfheartedly batted her hand away, not willing to allow anything to come between him and his focus, his only focus.

 _Lizzie_.

 _What is it in me that refuses to believe_

 _this isn't easier than the real thing_

 _My love_

 _you know that you're my best friend_

 _you know I'd do anything for you_

 _my love_

 _let nothing come between us_

 _my love for you is strong and true_

The moments before their vehicle had begun it's brief flight were seared into her memory, just as the moments that followed were a blur of breaking glass and darkness and huge noises indistinguishable from her screaming - the shriek of tortured metal, the sickening thud as their vehicle landed on its side and then onto its roof. They had been arguing in the back seat, Red sitting with mouth pursed, eyes inscrutable behind amber glasses, and Lizzie turned halfway towards him, hands clenched into fists, their mutual obstinacy like a stone wall between them. Neither of them registered the vehicle roaring towards them until it's blazing headlights threw their shadows onto the partition separating them from Dembe. The time between the first impact throwing them from the road and when they came to a crunching rest at the bottom of the gully couldn't have been more than half a minute.

Now she sat, the nurse finished wiping the long, jagged scratch that crossed her forehead with some stinging liquid that caused her eyes to water, cutting clear tracks through the blood drying on her cheeks. She kept her eyes trained on his face despite the tears blurring her vision. Refused to focus on the grim murmured voices of the surgeon and nurses who were piecing Raymond Reddington back together as though he were a quilt.

It was only now, faced with the risk of losing him, seeing his hearts blood spilled so freely on what felt like every surface, that Liz allowed herself to contemplate existence without him. To see his face, white, so stripped of any of it's usual vitality, no sign of life, no flutter of eyelid or upturn of lips, struck her deeply, cut through the shock just as glass and metal had ripped through his body. He had become such a key part of her life, that the thought of losing him caused her heart to twist within painfully. The hand which held so desperately onto his tightened, and she twined her cold fingers with his, as if by interlacing them tightly she could pass some of her life force into him.

I.V bags were hung beside the bed, medications and blood transfusions draining into his veins, desperate attempts to restore what had been lost.

Time passed.

The frantic activity of the surgeon had slowed, and she seemed to now be focused on closing the ugliest of the wounds that marred his abdomen. An ex-British Army doctor, she was experienced in putting men back together who had been taken apart with some violence. Her hand was steady as she stitched a long line of black knots into Reddington's skin.

At one point Dembe, his own wounds treated out of Liz's line of sight, put his large hand over her and Red's entwined ones. She started at his touch, looked up for the first time into his face, saw her own anguish mirrored there.

 _Am I in heaven here or am I..._

 _at the crossroads I am standing_

 _So now you're sleeping peaceful_

 _I lie awake and pray_

 _that you'll be strong tomorrow and we'll_

 _see another day and we will praise it_

 _and love the light that brings a smile_

 _across your face_

"Raymond," he said, "Let me watch for a moment. You need to take care of yourself."

Red shook his head. "I'm fine." His voice was strained, rough, unused for many hours.

Dembe persisted. "They've done all they can for now." He indicated the nurse who was gently washing the blood from Lizzie's arm with warm water and a soft cloth, and Red looked down at his own hand, now blackened with dried blood that was not entirely his own. "I will stay with her. Go."

Red stood, swaying slightly on his feet, still holding's Lizzie's hand, reluctant to let go until Dembe gently disengaged her fingers from his. Holding it as tenderly as Red would himself, Dembe took his place next to the bed, and nodded towards the door. Reluctantly, Red walked from the room, pausing at the doorway to look back once more at the scene brightly lit with white lights, the medical team in scrubs and masks, Dembe a reassuring presence at the bedside.

Red barely made it to the doorway of the bathroom before his bile rose and he gagged. He staggered over to the toilet and felt the contents of his stomach eject themselves violently into the bowl. He retched and retched, long after there was nothing left to pass, and passed a shaky hand over his mouth, sitting back on his heels, trying to regain his breath. He stood after several long moments and shuffled over to the sink. The water was mercifully warm on his clammy, sweating hands, and soon ran red onto the white porcelain as he scrubbed them together. Until now he had avoided looking at his reflection so when he finally did, it was look looking at the face of a stranger. Darkened with blood, skin that was exposed pale and sick, eyes that were hollow with the agony of facing yet another loss in his life. He did not know if he was strong enough for this, to face the possibility of a huge chunk of his heart, what was left of it, being carved from his chest and buried along with all the others.

Turning off the faucet he tore his eyes from the face reflected before him and stepped, fully clothed, into the shower. The water came on in a gush, and he stood beneath it, allowing it to rush over his face and into his ears, the roar drowning out everything around him.

 _Oh God if you're out there won't you hear me_

 _I know that we've never talked before_

 _oh god the man I love is leaving_

 _won't you take him when he comes to your door_

The water blocked sounds but it couldn't block the scenes that were playing themselves back on the inside of her eyelids. She opened her eyes with a gasp and shook her head, water spraying out in every direction. Focusing instead on the need to be clean, she stripped off her sopping clothes and dropped them to the floor, grabbing a bar of soap and hastily scrubbing herself. She needed to get back to him, to know that he was still alive, to feel his heart beating beneath her hand. He had to make it. He had to. To imagine otherwise was pure folly. She needed him, she could see that now with blinding clarity, he had made himself so deeply a part of her life that he was a part of her now. The years ahead of her stretching out without his acerbic wit, his fascinating anecdotes, the warmth of his hand as it gently held hers, the kindness she saw in his green eyes when he smiled at her - without him they would be barren. A wasteland.

Stumbling from the shower, Liz blindly groped for a towel and scrubbed herself dry fiercely, not caring that she disturbed the minor scratches on her arms and legs and caused them to seep blood once more. She took a little more care with her face, feeling the throb of the wound on her forehead, dabbing around it carefully. Daring a quick glance at the mirror again, she saw that it had also begun to weep slightly, although not as severely as before. The warmth of the shower and calmed the shock somewhat, and she felt slightly less like she was out her own body. The acid from vomiting felt as though it had coated her teeth, and she briefly wished she had a toothbrush.

Liz knew which of the rooms in the safe house held clothes that would fit her, and she walked swiftly, towel wrapped carelessly around her, pausing for a second as she passed by the door which led to the temporary surgery. Common sense overrode her desire to open it, and she hurried on to the bedroom, dressing hastily and uncaring in whatever first came to hand. Being separated from Red manifested itself as a constant sick feeling in the pit of her guts, and it was becoming worse the longer she was away from him. She nearly ran back down the hall, and forced herself to open the door quietly, not wanting to startle those who were working within.

As she came inside, she noticed that most of the medical staff had left, with the surgeon washing her hands in a sink against the far wall. A nurse sat on the opposite side of the bed to Dembe, monitoring Red's vital signs, a hand on his forehead. Dembe had apparently not moved from his place except to allow the nurse to wash the blood from Red's hand. He smiled at Liz as she walked towards them, but it was strained.

"Is he... Going to be alright?"

 _Am I in heaven here or am I in hell_

 _at the crossroads I am standing_

 _Now you're sleeping peaceful_

 _I lie awake and pray_

 _that you'll be strong tomorrow and we'll_

 _see another day and we will praise it_

 _and love the light that brings a smile_

 _across your face..._

Dembe shrugged with one shoulder. "They have done what they can. Time will tell." Raymond could see tears in his eyes, and knew that his own were growing wet once more. Dembe stood and surrendered Liz's hand giving it a final squeeze before Red took it. He sat carefully, aware of the persistent ache deep in his bones, the wound on his forehead throbbing in time to his heart. The nurse across the bed from him looked up sympathetically and smiled at him, her hand not leaving Lizzie's other wrist as she kept a close watch on her pulse. The surgeon walked over to the bed once more, stripped of her bloody gown and washed clean, face grim.

"Ray, I have to be honest with you. She's taken a real beating. I've seen injuries like this on blokes who took a gut full of shrapnel. Some survived, some didn't. A lot depends on the next couple of days, and whether infection sets in." Red had grown pale at her words, and held Lizzie's hand tighter. "You need to ensure she doesn't move, and preferably, we should keep her under for a while to give her a better chance. She'll need another litre of blood when this one is done." Her face became kind, and she allowed herself a quirk of the lips. "She's certainly lucky you were able to get her to me so quickly. Any delay would have cost her life, I reckon."

"I am in your debt, Bernie. Yet again." Red swallowed and looked back to Lizzie's face, longing for the flush to return to her cheeks, to see her eyes opening and looking towards him, knowing that he may not see that for several days, if he ever saw it again... _Stop that._

Bernie patted him on the shoulder. "Jane will stay here. She'll be relieved in a few hours by another one of my staff. They'll contact me if anything changes overnight, and I'll be here in the morning if nothing does."

He clutched at her hand briefly with his free one. "Again, thank you." At his words, Bernie smiled at Dembe, and took herself from the room quietly.

Now would begin the waiting.

 _Hold on_

 _hold on to yourself_

 _for this is gonna hurt like hell..._

The room was dark, the monitoring devices providing the only source of light. They beeped out of sync, keeping track of two heartbeats. The nurse sat, eyes on the monitors, occasionally laying a gentle hand on a forehead. Dembe sat in silence between the two beds, one hand held in each of his, keeping a wakeful vigil over the two who lay so still and pale, as the night slowly turned to dawn.


End file.
